


Fifth Time's the Charm

by booksnchocolate



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: (actually four plus one), 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 17:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnchocolate/pseuds/booksnchocolate
Summary: Four Christmases Thomas and Newt didn't spend together, and one they did.





	Fifth Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tattered_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tattered_Dreams/gifts).



> For Rach <3 Merry Christmas!

 1.

“It’d be almost winter now,” Jorge says, suddenly. Thomas drops the firewood he’d been carrying onto the pile with the rest with a grunt, but otherwise doesn’t respond, and Jorge continues. “You know, it used to snow? Big, thick flakes, white and soft, used to fall down from the sky. Cold too, but if you caught one, they’d melt like nothing and you’d be left with just water in your hand.” His eyes are far away.

 

“Probably just as well it doesn’t snow here. We don’t have the supplies for that shit.” It’s rueful humour at best.

 

Thomas doesn’t respond. He’s been doing a lot of that lately – not responding. It’s out of character for him; the leader, the one to spearhead the escape and the charge that had brought them all here to Safe Haven, always talking and moving, yelling until his throat was raw – but they made it and things are different now. There’s nowhere to run, nothing to escape from; at last, they can settle and Thomas – Thomas stays quiet. He’s not stupid. He doesn’t miss the glances Minho shoots at him every so often, nor the way Fry has taken to ladling extra helpings into his bowl when he thinks Thomas won’t notice. He knows his friends care, knows they only want to look out for him, and equally, he knows they wouldn’t understand the deadening silence in his chest, the absence of any movement. He doesn’t have much to say to anyone; the only one who’d care to hear is – he tries not to think about it.

 

“What?” he manages, realizing Jorge is waiting on him for a response.

 

Jorge peers at him, lines creased around his dark eyes. “Did you hear a word I said, hermano?” Thomas shakes his head and Jorge mutters something no doubt derogatory in Spanish. When he speaks, however, his voice is kind. “You’ve been distracted lately.”

 

“I – yeah,” Thomas says, voice rasping over the word. He drops his gaze to the mound of firewood at his feet; twigs and branches can’t make eye contact.

 

Jorge only hums in acknowledgement and they sink back into silence. Clouds push out along the horizon and a stiff breeze rustles the branches of the trees at their backs, a lonely, hollow sound.

 

“There used to be holidays around this time of year,” Jorge says at last, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Lots of little kids got presents. Different celebrations around the world. Before my time, of course, but…” he trails off, nudges Thomas’ shoulder lightly. “Might give us something to do. Safety is as good a cause for celebration as any, and we still have things to be thankful for.”

 

The invitation is clear in his words, just this side of too cajoling, but Thomas can’t give him what he wants right now. The ache in his chest intensifies until he has to clench his fists to keep from screaming.

 

Later that night, Thomas unscrews the capsule around his neck, unfolding the treasure within. The words have been all but worn off the pages of Newt’s letter but Thomas still traces his thumb over them every night, trying to feel the indent of the pen, the smudge of ink, the last vestiges of a presence long gone.

 

2.

“Come the fuck _on_ ,” Thomas groans as the streetcar lurches to a halt for the twelfth time in two blocks.

 

“Debris on the tracks!” the driver calls over the pneumatic hiss of the doors, grabbing his pick and sliding out of the seat. Muttered curses and sighs of dismay permeate the air as the mob of passengers shifts restlessly. Of course this would happen, is the unspoken collective thought. Why would anything be convenient on Christmas Eve?

 

Thomas shifts on his feet, sodden boots leaving track marks on the grimy floor. He tries to move as unobtrusively as possible – he can feel the handle of his grocery bag beginning to rip as gravity wins the war – but curses as the streetcar jerks into motion once more, sending him nearly face first into a stranger’s – miniature Christmas tree?

 

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas tries to say around a mouthful of pine needles, only it comes out more like, “What the fuck?”

 

At the stranger’s raised eyebrow he immediately tries to backpedal. “Isn’t it a little late to be buying a Christmas tree?”

 

Great. Good job smoothing that out, Thomas.

 

The dark blond eyebrow is still raised sardonically. “Isn’t it a little rude to infer someone’s theistic position from the greenery they’re carrying?” Another passenger clutches his – his _cactus_? – to his chest protectively and Thomas takes a moment to think at least Christmas-tree guy isn’t the weirdest dude on here.

 

“Uh,” says Thomas intelligently, floundering in the wake of that English accent. “I didn’t mean because of Christmas. I meant because the world is gonna end in a week?”

 

The judgment is palpable. “You believe in Y2K?” That attracts attention and the blond man draws in on himself as other passengers’ gazes flit around to him.

 

Thomas bristles. Who does this man think he is, speaking down to Thomas like he hasn’t just pulled a 27-hour work shift trying to patch code and backing up to a thousand CD-ROMs so the fucking government’s computer systems don’t all fail –

 

“Relax,” the man says, thin lips curving up in the barest hint of a smirk. “I’m sure you techie types will save us all.”

 

Thomas runs a frustrated hand through his hair, fingers only catching slightly in the frosted gelled tips. “Better hope so,” he mutters.

 

“Great,” the man says. “We’re all bloody inspired.” His voice is dry but there’s a flash of humour in his dark eyes that Thomas definitely isn’t imagining. Suddenly, he wishes the streetcar would get stuck again.

 

He’s about to respond when the streetcar jerks to another halt and the doors open. “This is me,” the guy says, maneuvering his Christmas tree to the exit before Thomas knows what’s going on.

 

It’s only after the doors shudder closed that Thomas realizes he never got the guy’s name.

 

3.

“I thought the zoo was closed on Christmas!”

 

Brenda only snorts. “Welcome to America, baby. Home of capitalism and the sixty-hour work week. I’ve been here since Sunday.”

 

“That’s a load of bullshit,” Minho snorts as he wipes his face on his sleeve.

 

“No, _that’s_ a load of bullshit,” Brenda says as she gestures to the refuse Minho is currently shoveling. Minho flips her the bird.

 

“Actually, guys, it’s hippo shit,” comes Chuck’s voice from somewhere at the other end of the compound, “which, technically speaking is actually a mixture of –”

 

Gally cuts him off. “ _Technically speaking_ is something none of us would have had to spend our fucking Christmas dealing with if _someone_ had monitored the feeding regimen more closely.”

 

“Fuck off!” Thomas can feel his cheeks heating at the jibe. “It’s not my fault the recall was issued after I fed Bertha-”

 

“Enough, guys.” Newt’s voice echoed through the pen. “We’re all here, we’re all stuck shoveling shit, we might as well just keep our mouths shut and get on with it so Janson lets us out before midnight.”

 

The team grumbles assent and for a few minutes the pen is filled with silence save for the scraping of shovels and slopping of manure. Thomas is just starting to get into the rhythm of it again, the muscles in his arms and back burning with the repetitive motions of _push, lift, twist, push_ when he becomes aware of a presence at his side. Turning his head, Newt is there, blond hair matted with sweat under one of the stupid safari hats that make up the Glade Zoo uniform.

 

“So, is working at the Glade all it’s cracked up to be, Tommy?”

 

The tack-on nickname is deliberate but something in Thomas warms at the implied familiarity and he smiles back despite himself. The whole compound smells like shit – literally – but there’s a soft smile curling at the edge of Newt’s lips and that’s the only thing Thomas can focus on right now.

 

“It has its ups and downs,” is all he can think to say, but it must be enough because Newt snorts.

 

“That’s pretty diplomatic of you.” His eyes are crinkled with amusement. “Shoveling shit on Christmas is your idea of a good time then?”

 

“Beats being at home.” The words are out before Thomas thinks and he snaps his jaw shut, only to open it again when his brain catches up with him. “Shit. Not that – I mean. It’s whatever,” he huffs, cheeks flaming. He digs his shovel into the slop with renewed ferocity.

 

Newt opens his mouth like he wants to press the issue, but Thomas turns away, pointedly ignoring him. Their shift ends an hour later without further incident and Thomas tells himself it doesn’t matter that Newt doesn’t wish him a good night when he leaves.

 

4.

It’s December 24th and the third floor photocopier has been on the fritz for two hours.

 

“Well, this is just fucking perfect,” Ben growls, waving his disassembled brief of authorities menacingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas sees Chuck wincing as hours of meticulous highlighting, indexing and pagination are nearly strewn across the discoloured carpet. “These motion materials are due _tomorrow_ and you’re telling me we can’t fucking copy them?” His bloodshot blue eyes twitch unnervingly.

 

“Calm down,” Alby’s voice rings out from his office, words measured and even despite the late hour. “We’ll just send it to our printing company. They’ll sort it out for us.”

 

Ben’s pained expression eases slightly at that but Thomas finds himself speaking and the lawyer’s gaze snaps to him with frightening alacrity. “Actually,” he begins, “the printing shop closed at 7pm today. They’re not open again until –”

 

“They can’t be closed! Don’t they know people need –”

 

“Need to calm down and take their fucking holidays.” A new voice cuts in and Thomas whirls around to see Newt stepping neatly around a potted plant. His charcoal grey suit still looks pressed and immaculate despite the twelve-hour workday and Thomas takes a moment to be secretly jealous. “Ben, courts don’t sit on the 25th. It’s Christmas.”

 

Ben works his jaw for a moment and Thomas has the fleeting hope that maybe he’ll capitulate and they’ll get to leave the office before three am. Then: “We can file it the 26th. But service needs to happen by tomorrow. Which means we need to reproduce it by tomorrow. Which means it needs to be done tonight.”

 

“Come on,” Thomas snaps, anger heating his voice. The sleep deprivation of the last week is quickly catching up to him, burning the fuse on a temper that’s short at the best of times. “No one’s gonna be at their office to accept service tomorrow anyway. It’s-”

 

Ben kneads his temples. “For the last time, Greenie –”

 

“Stop calling me that!” Thomas interjects to no avail.

 

“This isn’t your average law firm. This is WCKD. Janson always has someone at the office. Once, they served us at 4:35am and tried to strike our pleadings at court because there was no one there to receive the documents in person.”

 

Thomas can’t really argue with that – WCKD’s reputation is only too well-known in the criminal law field. There have been horror stories of month-long work weeks and mandatory holiday time spent with the senior partners at various timeshares in Florida questionably expensed through the business. Still –

 

“There has to be another way.” Newt says what Thomas is thinking but Ben is already shaking his head.

 

“There’s nothing. Our client will have to go to court with no admissible defence.”

 

There’s a beat of silence as that sinks in. Patent leather shoes shuffle over the thin carpet as people war with themselves: it’s nearing ten pm on Christmas Eve and no one wants to individually reproduce five sets of eight volumes of argument and law; yet the thought of their client lacking representation at such a crucial juncture is equally untenable.

 

When it becomes clear no one else is going to do it, Thomas speaks. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

 

Newt’s gaze snaps to him, brown eyes sharp. “Do what?” he asks like he doesn’t already know the answer.

 

“I’ll stay and prep the materials. It makes sense,” he continues, heading off Newt’s argument as the man’s eyes narrow, “I’m an associate, so my fee is cheaper for the client. I have the first copy ready to go, if Ben doesn’t throw it all over the floor. I’ll prep it and tab it from my computer and have Zart pick it up for service first thing-”

 

Ben is still glaring but his voice is edged with grudging respect when he says, “You’re sure about this, Greenie?”

 

Thomas bristles at the nickname – again – but only nods.

 

“Alright.” There’s an almost palpable sense of relief in Ben’s voice as he hands over the sheaves of paper he’d been holding.

 

Motion record in hand, Thomas staggers back to his cubicle and thunks the briefs down on his tiny desk. Lights flick off around him as the rest of the team staggers out but he barely registers it over the mountainous task before him.

 

“It was good of you to stay,” says a quiet voice behind him and Thomas jumps.

 

“What the fuck?” he says, and then, as he sees who it is, “Sorry. I thought you’d left.”

 

“I’m on my way out,” Newt says, slowly. “Just wanted to make sure you were actually okay with this. We don’t normally ask people to spend their holidays here.”

 

“I know,” Thomas says, shifting files around on his desk and avoiding Newt’s eyes. “It’s not like I have anything much better to be doing.”

 

When he turns around, Newt’s eyebrows are raised. “Well, that can’t be true,” he says. “You must have some plans.”

 

 _Like binge watch Netflix while I drink my way through a six-pack of PBR and fall asleep to dreams of my boss_ , Thomas doesn’t say. That’s inappropriate on so many levels. He can afford better than PBR, for one thing. “Not really.”

 

Newt hums noncommittally. He fiddles with one of his cufflinks and Thomas watches the way his slim fingers dance around the metal. When Newt speaks again, it’s an effort to drag himself back to the present. “Sorry, what?”

 

“Surely someone’s waiting for you. No-” Newt wiggles his hand indistinctly – “girlfriend?”

 

“No, actually.” Thomas has to work his throat around the words. He’s imagining the way Newt’s eyes just darkened. He has to be. An uncomfortable laugh issues from his throat. “Just me.”

 

“Hm.” Newt’s expression is inscrutable, eyes never leaving Thomas’s face. The cubicle is tiny and Newt is barely a foot away; the air feels heavy, somehow, until Newt steps back and the tension in Thomas’s chest snaps like a string pulled too taut. “Well. I should let you get on with it.”

 

There’s nothing in his voice to suggest anything other than casual pleasantry but Thomas still has to lean back on his desk, willing the sudden heat flooding his limbs to subside.

 

Newt turns to leave. “Good luck, Tommy. Thank you for doing this.”

 

Thomas forces a smile, fixes it on his face. “Someone has to.” As Newt steps out of the cubicle toward the elevators, Thomas calls out, “Merry Christmas.”

 

The answer is an echo floating through the empty hall. “Merry Christmas.” Newt doesn’t turn around and Thomas squashes the twinge of disappointment in his chest.

5.

By the time Thomas drags himself out of bed, the Christmas carols are blaring louder than the car horns on the congested streets outside, but the garish tinsel strung everywhere does lend a certain festivity to the atmosphere and even the grey light filtering in from the bay window feels soft, comforting. Thomas shrugs into a sweater and pads into the kitchen, linoleum tiles cold against his bare feet. He reaches for the coffee pot on autopilot but is stopped by Minho’s ungodly screech.

 

“What the fuck are you wearing?!”

“Fuck!” Thomas curses in response, narrowly avoiding death by scalding coffee. The carafe clatters back to the counter. “Minho, the fuck? How about good morning?”

 

His housemate is descending on the kitchen like an army. “You come into my house-”

 

“Dude, we both live here-”

 

“On the day of Christmas Eve-”

 

“Minho, oh my God, this joke is older than you are-”

 

“And you aren’t even wearing an ugly Christmas sweater!” Minho swats at him with a roll of wrapping paper.

 

“You’re such a drama queen,” Thomas groans, deflecting the poorly aimed jab and turning back to the life-giving caffeine. “Coffee first. Sweaters after.”

 

“Fine,” Minho huffs, somehow managing to sound more like a put-out prom queen than Teresa ever could. He brandishes the wrapping paper like a sword in Thomas’s face. “But once you’re semi-functional, you gotta help me with the rest of the decorations.”

 

Thomas makes a show of surveying their apartment, every wall festooned with tinsel and lights; there’s even a small Christmas tree shedding pine needles in a corner. “There’s more?”

 

“Yes, dumbass,” Minho pokes him in the side. “The mistletoe, for starters.”

 

Thomas nearly chokes on his coffee. “The what now?” he sputters, feeling his stomach drop at the amusement glittering in Minho’s dark eyes.

 

“The mistletoe. Y’know, red and green, we put it up on the ceiling and people kiss under it. I was thinking of putting a bunch near the bathroom-”

 

“That’s evil,” Thomas laughs, steadfastly ignoring the growing desire to launch himself into the sun. “Are you sure we need the mistletoe this year?” he tries. “I think it’s kinda overkill.”

 

Minho just laughs, eyes crinkling with mischief. “Methinks the lad doth protest too much. It’s not a party without the chance to make out with someone way outta your league.”

 

Thomas glares into his coffee cup. “Fuck you,” he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Uh huh,” Minho leans against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not stupid, you know – fuck off,” he says at Thomas’s raised eyebrow - “I’ve seen the way you drool over Newt when you think he’s not looking.”

 

All the air is sucked from the room. “I – what?” Thomas manages weakly, suddenly scrambling for words. That’s not – It’s not – Objectively, he knows Minho knows. Thomas is not exactly the world’s best at keeping secrets and subtlety is a lost art on him. So it shouldn’t surprise him that after months of trailing after Newt like a puppy and mentally comparing his smile to sunbeams, his housemate has also twigged to the way Thomas lets only Newt call him nicknames, the way he’s the first to ask Newt for advice, and how Newt has, at Thomas’s insistence, started spending so much time with them that he more or less lives on their couch. Minho knowing isn’t unexpected, really. Thomas just wasn’t prepared to be called on his feelings, under threat of mistletoe, no less.

 

Minho knocks their shoulders together, jostling Thomas back to the present. “You okay there, loverboy? We don’t have to put up the mistletoe if you really don’t want to.” His serious tone belies the joking words and Thomas takes a moment to be silently thankful for his best friend, knowing that if he says the word, Minho will drop the subject.

 

Thomas bites his lip and chooses his words carefully. “I think we should definitely put a bunch over the fridge,” he says slowly. “That way when people go for more drinks, it’s like, bam!”

 

Delight unfurls across Minho’s features and he fist-pumps vigorously. “Yeah!”

 

Thomas begins to regret his decision more and more as the day drags on. For one thing, Minho has started staring unnervingly at Thomas while singing the lyrics to _All I Want For Christmas Is Newt_. For another, the constant puns are starting to get… really old.

 

“I dunno, Thomas. Aren’t you feeling a little Newty? Naughty! I said naughty!” Minho shrieks like a girl and sprints down the hallway as Thomas leaps over the sofa after him.

 

The ringing of the doorbell is almost a relief – someone else can put up with Minho’s antics – until Thomas realizes what it means: people.

 

“Nice sweater, Thomas!” Gally crows as he pushes through the door, arms laden with trays covered in tinfoil.

 

“Thanks,” Thomas shoots back gamely, “I stole it from your mom’s closet.”

 

Gally only snorts and follows him to the kitchen where they busy themselves warming the food. (Thomas and Minho had cooked for Christmas once. The decision to prevent them from cooking ever again had been unanimous.) The doorbell rings again and Gally’s head snaps to the door, though he quickly returns to his task as Frypan’s voice filters through to the kitchen.

 

“I can’t believe you carried the turkey all the way here,” Minho begins, trailing after Frypan to join them in the kitchen. “You could have just used our oven –”

 

Thomas muffles a snort of laughter unsuccessfully and even Gally chuckles. “Uh, do you remember what happened last time we tried to cook a turkey in your oven?” Frypan demands.

 

Minho’s eyes widen comically at the recollection, memories of smoke alarms and singed eyebrows written clear on his face. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah,” is the response. “Now move over, the chef needs space!”

 

It’s as good a command as any for Thomas to leave the kitchen in more capable hands, so he’s free to be on door duty as the rest of the guests flood in. Brenda shows up with Jorge, Vince, and a bottle of red wine that probably costs more than Thomas’s rent, and she beelines for the kitchen. Aris brings his traditional loaf of cornbread, which Thomas would tease him for if it didn’t smell so heavenly; even Teresa shows up, a small box of chocolates clutched uncertainly in gloved hands.

 

“Hey,” she says when Thomas opens the door.

 

He gapes at her. “Hey.” A pause, and then they both try to speak at the same time.

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d –”

 

“I hope it’s alright that I –”

 

They break off, smiling sheepishly at each other. Teresa breaks the stalemate. “Can I come in?”

 

“Wha-yeah of course,” Thomas throws the door open for her and before he can say anything else, she’s crossing the threshold and drawing him into a tight hug.

 

“I missed you.”

 

Thomas works his jaw for a moment. “Missed you too, T. After last time, I. I didn’t know if you were gonna show up.”

 

She pulls back and smiles. She’s tan, Thomas notices, and her hair is longer, falling in thick waves down her back. “I’m glad you made it.”

 

Teresa’s grin widens. “So am I. Now,” she looks around, tone turning mock serious, “where’s the wine?”

 

There’s a steady influx of people after that: Winston, Zart, Ben, Sonya and Harriet holding hands. Chuck arrives and practically squeals in delight at the Christmas tree, though it’s small and lopsided (neither Thomas nor Minho has Newt’s green thumb). “Can I put the star on?”

 

“’Course buddy,” Thomas says as Minho fetches the ornament box, “we saved it for you like always.”

 

Chuck beams and Thomas feels a well of warmth in his chest watching him place the final ornament on the tree. Not a bad start to Christmas.

 

Of course, that’s when the doorbell rings again and everything goes to hell. Newt is standing there in the dingy hallway of the apartment complex, holding a small box and looking – really, unfairly – good in his tan jacket with the sheepskin collar. Thomas’s throat is suddenly very dry.

 

“Hi,” he manages, swallowing as Newt runs a hand through tousled hair. It’s unfair, he thinks, that Newt should have such soft, touchable hair. If he reached out, he could – shit. Newt is speaking to him. “What?”

 

“I said, Merry Christmas,” he repeats, eyes bright. “You sure you haven’t already cracked into the eggnog, Tommy?”

 

“Shut up,” Thomas mutters, grinning, and all but drags him inside. “You’re late anyway, it would have served you right if we had.”

 

The festivities are well underway and Thomas can’t help but smile as he takes in everyone laughing and talking around him. Christmas carols are playing from the beat-up speakers and the soft melody floats through the warm air. Gally and Brenda are having an animated discussion in one corner while Chuck and Teresa duke it out on-screen in Smash. Frypan is laughing in the kitchen as Winston demonstrates some questionable experiment involving a pineapple and a bottle of vodka, and through the fog on the window, Thomas can just make out Vince and Jorge standing together on the small balcony. Having everyone together doesn’t happen too often; they’ve all got lives – Teresa working for a pharmaceutical company in Austin, Frypan constantly busy upstate with his new cooking series on Netflix (Thomas and Minho watch it religiously), Clint buried under textbooks in med school – so Thomas lets himself savour the moment, the warmth of being surrounded by his friends. It’s a good feeling.

 

“Whatcha thinking there, Tommy?” Newt’s voice beside him makes Thomas startle as he turns around.

 

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging, the alcohol from the spiked eggnog taking the edge off of any nerves he might have felt, standing in such close proximity to Newt. “’s just nice. Having everyone ho- here.”

 

Newt hums thoughtfully, leaning into Thomas’s space as he surveys the room. “Yeah,” he says. There’s a strange undercurrent to his voice that Thomas can’t decipher; he tells himself it’s probably just the drink. “This is nice.” He echoes Thomas’s words but the inflection makes it clear he’s not talking about the room at large.

 

“This?” Thomas plays dumb, made brave suddenly by Newt’s proximity, the fact that neither of them has moved away. If he leans the slightest bit backward, their shoulders touch and the heat seeping from that point of contact electrifies him.

 

Newt’s voice is a mere whisper, breath hot on the shell of his ear. “Us.”

 

Thomas’s grip falters on his drink. He wonders, vaguely, if Newt can hear the way his breath catches, snagged in his chest by the ragged beating of his heart. Turning his head to meet Newt’s eyes is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

 

“Newt-”

 

There’s a devilish smirk hidden in the brief twitch of Newt’s thin lips. His warm brown eyes meet Thomas’s before flicking up briefly. Thomas follows his gaze, and that’s when he sees it – the sprig of mistletoe he’s apparently been sitting under all night. “Oh.”

 

“Oh,” Newt parrots, but there’s no trace of mockery in his tone. He’s pressing closer, close enough for Thomas to see the flecks of gold in his irises. Thomas can feel Newt’s breath ghosting on his cheeks, his lips. He’s leaning in.

 

The press of their lips together is at once momentous and the most natural thing in the world. Newt’s lips are chapped when he presses them chastely to Thomas’s, and for a moment Thomas is flooded with fear that this is it – that Newt will pull back and they’ll both laugh and shake it off. He clenches his fingers in Newt’s shirt unconsciously, but he need not have worried. The next instant, Newt is deepening the kiss, and Thomas opens his mouth willingly, senses flooded by the smoke-smell of Newt’s hair, the taste of spice and rum on his breath.

 

The rest of the world falls away as they kiss. It feels like home.

A loud whoop breaks them apart. Newt flinches and nearly bites down on Thomas’s tongue and they knock heads trying to disengage.

 

“Amazing, guys!” comes Minho’s voice from the periphery. Thomas can’t bring himself to look. He’s fairly certain if he makes eye contact with anyone, he’ll spontaneously burst into flames. “Brenda, you owe me ten bucks!”

 

“Wait – was this some kind of betting pool?” Incredulity floods Newt’s voice but Thomas can hear the smile beneath it. He drops his head onto Newt’s shoulder and does the only thing he can do – he laughs, long and hard, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Of course this is his life.

 

“Oh shit,” Zart’s voice comes from the kitchen, “guys, we broke Thomas.”

 

“Nah, it’s good,” Thomas says at last, wiping his eyes. He’s all but sitting in Newt’s lap and he can feel the blush staining his cheeks.

 

“I think it was a long time coming,” Newt says, pitching his voice for Thomas alone. It sends a shiver down Thomas’s spine and he grins.

 

“I think it was.” There’s a pause. “Hey, Newt?”

 

Newt peers at him. “Yeah?”

 

Thomas presses a soft kiss to the corner of his smile. “Merry Christmas.”

 

 


End file.
